


Reflections

by Idreamofhazel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Self-Hatred, Unintentional Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idreamofhazel/pseuds/Idreamofhazel
Summary: I don’t really know what this is or where it came from. It’s depressing. It’s angsty. The reader is dealing with shame. Over what? It’s not specified, it could be anything. And after dealing with it for so long, the reader snaps.Originally posted March 2017I Got It Wrong – Could EverBroken glass on the floorThis is who I was beforeThey said, this is who I’ll always be, this is who I’ll always be…I got it wrong





	Reflections

There were hundreds of reflective shards of glass all over the floor, each of them throwing a mirror image of your face at you. Hundreds of pairs of crying eyes. Hundreds of pink noses. Red blood dripping onto the floor.

You gasped.

And sobbed. And Sam came running in. He met you on the floor, taking you in his arms.

“Hey, hey Y/N, what happened? Hey, calm down, it’s ok. I’m here. You’re ok.”

You broke the mirror, shattered it with your fist on purpose. You snapped, a thousand tiny inconvenient events piling onto your patience until it buckled, already bending under the weight of shame. One last thing had made the load unbearable. A toothbrush dropped on the floor. Wasted toothpaste.

You shook and sobbed and gasped and wailed and cried in pain. Your fist was bloody, dripping onto the glass and Sam’s arms and your pants. The image of your wet knuckles focused you. You channeled all the pain into your hand.

“It hurts,” you cried, not about your hand, not really.

“I’m gonna, I’ll bandage it up, ok?”

Sam opened the cabinet under the sink, pulled out supplies, spilled bandaids on the floor.

“It hurts, it hurts so bad.”

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s going to sting when I clean it.”

“No, it all hurts, all of it, it hurts so bad.” You closed your eyes tight, shutting out your reflections.

Sam tended to your hand, his shaky fingers cleaning up the mess best he could.

“Y/N, please, I need you to breathe, just breathe, ok?”

You inhaled. One sharp breath and your entire chest filled with new air. You kept your eyes closed. You exhaled.

“Better,” he said. “Can you look at me?”

“I can’t even look at myself.”

His hands didn’t stop working.

“Why?”

You pulled your hand away. He wasn’t done, but you wanted to be. You pulled your knees close. You tucked your head between them.

Glass scraped across the tile floor. Sam scooted over. He put his arm around your shoulders and whispered, desperately.

“Please talk to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, and I’m worried about you. I want to help.”

“How can you love me? I’m not worth your time.”

You couldn’t escape your reflection. Even in the hiding place of your closed eyes, the shards danced behind your eyelids, burned into your memory.

“You’re worth all my time.” Sam’s voice was weak. He was close to tears. “Why are you saying this?”

You inhaled sharply. This time it was ragged. You were holding back more tears.

“It’s true. I can’t look at myself because I’m not–” Your lips quivered. Your throat tightened. “I’m not good…anymore.”

Sam sighed. The sound was soft. You expected more of a reaction.

“I haven’t always been good either. I, I know the feeling, it’s poisonous. It consumes you. But Y/N.” He took his other hand and coaxed your head up. Your eyes fluttered open. You wiped away tears with the back of your hand. His face was inches from yours. “I can look at you, I want to look at you. None of this has changed who you really are.”

Your eyes closed as more tears forced their way out. Your face was contorted and Sam still placed his palm on your cheek, he still ran his thumb back and forth.

You opened your eyes.

“How did you get past it?”

“Doing good, channeling my guilt into something productive–” His eyes were stern and kind– “And not isolating myself.”

“I’m trying,” you whimpered, “I feel like I should be doing more.”

“I know, I know.”

He pulled you close, rubbing his hand over the top of your head, kissing your forehead, hushing you softly.

“I need to finish your hand,” he said.

You nodded. That would be the easiest thing to fix.

“The glass…”

“I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“But what if-”

“Tomorrow.”

He finished your hand. You were exhausted. Your eyes closed as they begged for sleep. Your muscles ached. Your head pounded.

Sam picked up on the signs of fatigue and then picked you up, slipping one arm under your knees, the other around your back. You were in his arms like a child, being carried to bed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his chest.

Maybe you could be wrong. Maybe Sam could be right.

Maybe this was the new you.

Maybe you hadn’t changed.

You couldn’t decide. You were asleep in his arms before he could put you to bed.


End file.
